The Boy In Blue
by Collegekid2006
Summary: Shawn's nightmares all come true when he finally ends up at the police academy, and it's not by choice.
1. Chapter 1

The moment Shawn walked into Chief Vick's office, he knew he was in trouble.

Lassiter and Juliet were already there, and as he closed the door behind him and crossed the room to his seat, he could feel all three of them watching him intently.

"What's going on?" He asked, his eyes darting nervously between them as he tried to figure out exactly what he was missing.

"It's not going to work, Chief." Lassiter said, ignoring Shawn's question.

"Well, he'll have to get a haircut…" Vick agreed thoughtfully, appraising Shawn with a critical eye.

"A haircut?" Shawn's hand instinctively covered the top of his head. "What are you talking about? Why would I need a haircut?"

Vick leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs and gently resting her elbows on the chair's arms.

"What do you know about the police academy, Mr. Spencer?" She asked.

Shawn shrugged, still eyeing them suspiciously.

"I dunno…the first movie was pretty good, but the sequels sucked. Why? Are we going to watch them?"

His face suddenly brightened.

"Can I get Snowcaps? I always get Snowcaps at the movies."

"No, Mr. Spencer." The Chief pressed on, ignoring the quip. "The _actual_ police academy."

"Oh…"

Shawn almost sounded disappointed as she picked a file up off her desk and handed it to him. He flipped through it quickly as she explained what he was looking at.

"Two cadets have died in training in the last month. Both on the obstacle course, both from apparent heart attacks, even though they both passed their physicals with flying colors and neither of them had any history of heart problems."

Shawn handed the file back to her, caught up now.

"And you're thinking it was murder?" He concluded.

Nothing unusual so far…

He'd look the case over and give it his usual, charming flavor…

Standard fake psychic procedure.

…But then, why were they all still staring at him like he was the last donut in the box…?

Vick nodded.

"I need you to get a psychic reading on what is going on there. We can't prove it yet, but it sure seems like _someone_ is killing police recruits."

"On the Academy obstacle course?" Shawn looked doubtful. "Was there a climbing rope involved? Have you questioned all the local junior high gym teachers?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes and stood up gruffly.

"I told you it wouldn't work, Chief!" He barked. "You can't send him in undercover! With that smartass attitude of his, he'll wash out in a day!"

"Wait! Undercover?" Shawn looked as horrified as Lassiter as he suddenly realized what they were thinking…why he was the last donut… "Me? At the _Academy? _No, way!"

He shook his head adamantly, but Vick and Juliet weren't about to give up without a fight.

"Shawn, we have to find out what going on." Juliet said quietly. "We need someone on the inside."

"But why _me?_" Shawn demanded. "I don't even _like_ obstacle courses! Or school! Or blue!"

"The Academy doesn't let just anyone in. You have to already work for the Department," Juliet explained.

"And we need someone who can pass the entrance exam by Saturday." Vick added. "We don't have time to get someone to study for it. If our agent doesn't pass on Saturday, we'll have to wait another three months before it's offered again. And I 've been told you already aced the detective's exam…"

"Yeah…" Shawn admitted, glaring at Lassiter. "When I was fifteen!"

"Then you won't have any problem with the entrance exam."

Shawn groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

"Not the Academy, Chief!" He pleaded. "Why couldn't I go undercover at the circus? Or a sorority house? I would totally wear a dress if I had to!"

"I'm not giving you an option, Mr. Spencer." The Chief said firmly. "You're on the police payroll, and you _will_ take the cases assigned to you."

She stood up and handed Shawn a stack of papers.

"These are your application forms for the Academy. Have them filled out and on my desk by 5 o'clock."

Shawn sighed and reluctantly accepted the papers as he slowly made his way back to the office door.

"My dad had something to do with this, didn't he?" He muttered bitterly, though no one seemed to hear.

* * *

"This goes against every instinct I have." Lassiter groaned painfully, hesitantly taking his gun out of its holster and handing it to Shawn.

Shawn rolled his eyes and grabbed the piece.

"Relax, Lassie. I know what I'm doing. You just point the end with the bullets at the other guy."

He aimed it lazily down the shooting range, holding it sideways in one hand like a gangster in a movie.

"That's not how you hold it!" Lassiter snapped, snatching it away again.

"What?" Shawn blinked innocently. "That's how they do it on TV!"

"Listen, Spencer. If you're going to get into the Academy and actually _pass_ as a recruit, you have to be able to fire a gun. _This_ is how you hold it."

Lassiter clapped one hand firmly underneath the grip while the other slowly squeezed the trigger. Three rounds quickly unloaded, all landing squarely in the center of the paper target's chest.

"_There._" He grinned, handing the gun back to Shawn. "_That's_ how you shoot."

"Oh…!" Shawn gasped in feigned awe.

He clapped his own hand underneath the grip and spread his legs shoulder-width apart in a mocking impression of Lassiter's stance.

"You know, Lassie. This isn't a very comfortable way to stand…" he murmured, lining the target up in his sights. "And I can only imagine how uncomfortable it must be with that stick up your--"

"Shut up, Spencer. Just shoot the damn gun."

"Right."

Shawn turned his head away from the target and looked at Lassiter, continuing to talk as he emptied the gun down the range without so much as a glance.

"I don't see what the big deal with the whole gun thing is…" he said, not even flinching as the shots reverberated off the cement walls. "…I mean, how hard can it be?"

"Watch what you're doing, Spencer!" Lassiter shouted. "For God's sake, that's how you get people killed!"

He angrily hit the button on the wall, and the paper target came sailing up the range to where they were standing.

"Relax, Lassie. He's paper. I don't think he minds if I kill him." Shawn rolled his eyes, dropping the empty gun into Lassiter's hand.

Lassiter was about to launch into another lecture about proper shooting technique, but at that moment he happened to look at the target.

Across the black silhouette head was a perfect frowny face made of bullet holes, complete with two eyes, a nose, and a downward-arching mouth.

He stared at it in dumbfounded amazement, then finally looked at Shawn, who just shrugged.

"What?" Shawn grinned. "Is that good for my first time?"


	2. Chapter 2

"You did _what?_" Gus demanded, absolutely dumbstruck.

"I enrolled in the Police Academy." Shawn repeated, like it wasn't any big deal.

Gus stared at him across the Psych desk, his eyes as wide as tractor trailer tires.

"_Why?_"

Shawn gritted his teeth.

This was the part he was dreading.

"Because I really want to be a cop."

The words actually hurt coming out of his throat…like tiny, serrated daggers…

For once in his life, he felt guilty about lying to Gus, but he didn't have a choice. The Chief had made it very clear that being undercover meant he couldn't tell anyone what he was really doing.

Not even Gus.

"No, you don't." Gus snorted. "You haven't wanted to be a cop since you were nine!"

"Sure, I have." Shawn argued without conviction, slumping onto the couch.

"No…" Gus shook his head thoughtfully. "It went cop…superhero…back to cop…professional mattress tester…astronaut…I think you wanted to be a dog trainer at some point…"

"_Attack_ dog trainer." Shawn corrected.

"Still. Cop hasn't been on your possible career list in twenty years! Why now? What's going on, Shawn?"

Shawn just shrugged.

"Why _not_ now?" He mumbled.

It was his default line when it came to taking jobs or trips or stupid risks of any kind.

Gus had heard it a thousand times before.

"Why _not _now?" Gus shouted, finally losing his last ounce of patience. "You didn't even _tell_ me! _That's_ why not! We're supposed to be partners, Shawn! What about Psych? We still have six months left on our lease!"

Shawn sighed.

"I didn't tell you because I didn't know if I was even going to get in until I took the test last Saturday…but I got in. And it's not like I have to _live _at the Academy, Gus. I have class from 7 to 5 every day, weekends off. No big deal. It's not going to change anything. We can still take cases. We'll just work nights and weekends."

"I am _not_ working nights and weekends, Shawn." Gus snapped bitterly. "I already have another job. Remember?"

"It's just for six months."

"Six _months?_"

"Yeah."

Gus was furious. He pushed back from the desk and stood up.

"You just put _my_ life on-hold for six _months_ and you didn't even bother to _tell _me?!" He fumed, glaring at his best friend.

Shawn looked down at the floor, but didn't say anything.

Gus wouldn't have heard him, anyway, as he had already stormed out of the room without even looking back.

* * *

Shawn groaned as he hit the screaming alarm and rolled back over.

_It's not time to get up…_

_It can't be time to get up…_

_It's dark outside…_

He glanced over at the clock, which read 6:00.

_6? _He thought, his mind still dull from sleep.

_…It's dinner time…?_

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open as the realization dawned on him.

_Oh, God._

_It's not that 6 o'clock…_

_It's the other one…_

_…The bad one…_

He groaned again and pulled the pillow over his head.

He hated the Police Academy already, and it was only his first day.

He finally forced himself out of bed, but his early morning didn't get any better when he saw the blue uniform hanging on his chair.

_Oh, God…_

_I actually have to wear that thing!_

He glared at it spitefully for a minute, as if the uniform could actually perceive his malice, then slowly pulled the pants on and buttoned up the shirt.

_I hate blue…_

But the worst part was definitely the black, shiny shoes, which were sitting on the floor by the bathroom door.

He groaned for the third time in only seven minutes as he stepped over them to brush his teeth.

_They look like…grown-up shoes…_

He slipped his feet into them on his way back out of the bathroom, wincing as if they were filled with thumbtacks.

Finally, after strapping on the gun Lassiter had loaned him, he was ready to go.

He looked at himself in the mirror as he walked out the door, hoping it wasn't as bad as he thought it was…

But it was.

It was _that_ bad.

_I look like my dad…_

_I can actually feel my hair thinning…_

He pulled his hat down low over his brow as he stepped out of the apartment and shut the door behind him, just praying he wouldn't run into anyone he knew.

* * *

His first class was called Patrol Tactics.

_Who the hell wants to learn about patrol tactics at 7 o'clock in the morning?_ He wondered resentfully as he slid into his seat mere seconds before it was supposed to begin.

He looked around at the other eager cadets, who were buzzing about the room and talking to each other as they got pencils and pads ready.

Most of them, he noticed, were quite a bit younger than him.

_Great…_

_I'm going bald and I'm old…_

_That's just perfect._

He sighed and pulled out his own notebook, ready for a riveting hour of pointless doodling.

"All right," a familiar, gruff voice suddenly cut through the air. "Find a seat. Let's get started."

Shawn dropped his pen and looked up at the front of the room in horror.

_No…_He pleaded silently. _No no no no no no…_

_Not him…_

_Anyone but him…_

But no amount of wishing, pleading or praying would change the fact that his father was standing in front of the class, apparently about to teach.

_What the hell is he even doing here…?_

Henry didn't seem to notice Shawn as he glanced down at his watch and dropped a stack of books on the table.

"This is Patrol Tactics." He said, addressing the class. "If you're not supposed to be here, get the hell out."

Shawn had to stop himself from making a mad dash for the door.

He slid down as low as he could into his seat, praying his father wouldn't see him over the student in front of him.

_Don't see me…_

_Don't see me…_

_Not here…_

_Not in a uniform…_

"Take out your books," Henry continued, turning to the chalkboard. "…and if you sit any lower in your chair, Shawn, you're going to fall on your ass."


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time in his life, Shawn willingly hung around after class was dismissed.

"What the _hell _are you doing here?" He hissed at his father the moment the classroom had emptied.

"What am _I _doing here?" Henry returned flatly, erasing the blackboard without much enthusiasm. "I'm a retired cop, Shawn. You know I've taught Academy classes before."

"You didn't tell me you were teaching one _now!_"

"You didn't tell me you were _taking_ one now." Henry shot back.

Shawn's jaw clamped shut.

For once, he couldn't argue.

"This is Jim Strictland's class," Henry continued, not bothering to wait for Shawn's non-existent rebuttal. "He just had a double bypass, so I said I'd fill-in for a few weeks. That's what _I'm_ doing here. What the hell are _you _doing here, Shawn?"

He dropped the eraser on the chalk tray and turned to his son, his piercing eyes narrowing into incredulous slits.

Shawn looked down at his shiny black shoes, searching for an answer.

"I'm…here." He said quietly. "I enrolled in the Academy."

"Yeah. Gus told me."

Shawn glanced up again, surprised.

"He did?"

"He was pissed, Shawn. He didn't know anything about it. He wanted to know if I had any idea what the hell was going on with you. Of course, it came as news to _me_ that my son had decided to become a cop overnight."

"It wasn't overnight." Shawn argued limply. "I've been thinking about it for a while."

Henry snorted, wiping his dusty hands off on his pants as he started for the door.

"Kid, please. If you have to lie to Gus to keep your cover, fine. But give me some credit. We both know there's only one reason you would enroll in the Academy."

"Maybe I just want to be like you," Shawn muttered, knowing it was pointless to protest anymore.

His father had him figured out.

Henry turned back around, not the least bit amused by his son's flippancy.

"Shut up, Kid. I don't know what you're investigating, and I'm not going to ask. But you're wearing a uniform now, Shawn. A real one. Not that Halloween costume you had when you were a kid. I'm sure as hell not going to let you take that lightly."

"I'm _not_ taking it lightly!"

"You're not even wearing it right!" Henry snapped, looking his son over disapprovingly. "Your shirt isn't tucked it, your shoes aren't shined, and your pants aren't even pressed. For God's sake, Shawn! You're not going to last three days if you don't take this seriously!"

Shawn looked down at himself, tucking his shirt in absently.

He didn't look _that _bad…

"I know you don't want to be here, Kid." Henry continued, turning on his heel and marching out the door. "But this isn't a game. This isn't one of your little Weinermobile jobs you can just quit. If you don't want to wash out of the Academy before you crack your case, you're going to have to try a hell of a lot harder than _this._"

* * *

Lassiter couldn't help it.

When he stepped into the Chief's office for Shawn's daily debriefing and saw the psychic sitting there, slumped in his chair and looking absolutely miserable in his brand new blue uniform, he had to grin.

"Did you have a fun first day of school, Spencer?" He asked with a smirk as he shut the office door behind him. "Did the other kids let you play in the sandbox?"

"Shut up, Lassie," Shawn scowled.

But Lassiter wasn't about to shut up.

He _finally_ had ammunition, and he was going to use every last bit of it.

"Now, now. I officially outrank you." He pointed out with quite a bit of satisfaction, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Then shut up, _Sir._" Shawn snapped.

Lassiter laughed, and was about to keep tormenting him, but the office door opened again and Juliet and Chief Vick entered the room.

"Nice uniform," Jules grinned at Shawn as she took a seat next to her partner.

Shawn's eyebrows shot up, his day suddenly looking brighter.

"You like it?" He asked slyly. "It comes with handcuffs…and a gun!"

"That's _my_ gun." Lassiter growled. "And it's just for the shooting range, Spencer!"

"We're not here to discuss handcuffs _or_ guns." Vick snapped, checking her watch impatiently before turning to Shawn. "Did you get any psychic readings on the case, Mr. Spencer?"

"No," Shawn shook his head with a grimace. "I was too busy running…and running…and running. Seriously, haven't you people ever heard of a bike?"

Lassiter laughed again, endlessly amused by the mental image of Shawn being forced to run.

Shawn glared at him spitefully.

"We had to run, like, three miles!" He grumbled. "And we didn't even get to shoot anything at the end of it! No wonder those guys had heart attacks!"

"_Three_ miles?" Lassiter snorted, his eyes glinting. "It'll be seven by the time you're done. And you haven't even gotten to the obstacle course yet…or responded to a domestic disturbance…"

Shawn groaned, closing his eyes painfully as his future flashed before them.

"Why the hell would anyone _ever_ want to be a cop?" He muttered under his breath.

Lassiter shrugged.

"Because it pays so damn well." He grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

"Nice uniform."

Shawn lazily opened one eye at the familiar voice above him.

"Shut up," he grinned, slowly forcing himself to sit up as Gus collapsed onto the couch next to him.

"No, really." Gus insisted. "It suits you. You look just like your dad."

"I do not!"

"Are you kidding?" Gus snorted, elbowing his friend in the ribs. "All you have to do is start saying things like…'Don't do that, Shawn!'…and '_Think!_'….and 'Gus, Shawn's an idiot. You're way smarter than him…'"

"My dad never said that."

"Sure he did. You weren't there."

"Shut up!"

Gus laughed as Shawn wrenched off his tie and tossed it on the floor bitterly, as if destroying it would somehow free him from any lingering resemblance to his father.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Shawn asked, every joint in his body popping and cracking as he stood up and stretched. "I thought you went back to your _real _job."

"It's still my office, too, Shawn. We have six months left on the lease. I'm not going to waste my money."

"Right."

"What are _you_ doing here? Shouldn't you be walking a beat somewhere?"

Shawn shrugged, gesturing half-heartedly at the books scattered across the floor.

"I had some studying to do."

"Studying?" Gus laughed. "Since when do _you_ study?"

"I don't have a choice, Gus. This isn't high school. I can't just memorize the answer keys."

"What about your case?"

"I can do both," Shawn replied without thinking.

Gus' grin broadened.

He had finally trapped his friend.

Shawn blinked in surprise at his own slip-up, but he knew it was too late to backpedal now.

"How'd you--"

"I guess you're not the only psychic around here," Gus smirked, raising a single, victorious finger to his temple. "Maybe some of your fake powers rubbed off on me…"

He suddenly gasped dramatically and brought his other hand up to his head, gripping his ears as if in the throws of a painful headache.

"Oh! Wait! I'm getting something else…!" He groaned, his voice ominous and foreboding.

"Knock if off, Gus." Shawn scowled, rolling his eyes. "And that's a terrible psychic impression! It's not psychic-y at all!"

But Gus was having way too much fun to stop now. He stumbled around the room, moaning and mumbling incoherent garble under his breath.

"Okay, I don't do that!" Shawn protested, crossing his arms in a huff. "My visions have way more pizzazz than that! It's called _showmanship_, Gus!"

"I'm getting something…" Gus pressed on, ignoring Shawn's critiques. "…Two names…Darren Matthews… and Simon Boyle…"

His eyes snapped open again, just in time to see Shawn's jaw hit the floor.

"Am I close?" He asked with a knowing raise of his eyebrows.

"Yeah," Shawn nodded, clearly impressed. "You're close. How'd you figure it out?"

"Same way you do, Psychic." Gus grinned, pulling a rolled-up newspaper out of his back pocket and tossing it to Shawn. "There was an article about Simon Boyle's heart attack at the Academy. They mentioned a similar incident earlier this month, so I looked it up. Two heart attacks in a month? Come on. It's murder, right? That's why you're there."

Shawn sighed and glanced at the article, which was a small third page story without even a picture accompanying it.

"The ME's final report hasn't come back yet," he said finally, figuring there was no point in keeping up his charade. "At first glance, they both look like heart attacks, but nothing's official until the autopsies are done. The Chief just didn't want to wait for another body before she started investigating."

"So, you're undercover, right?" Gus' eyes danced excitedly at the prospect.

"I can't tell you, Gus."

"But you are."

"I can't tell you…" Shawn repeated slowly, emphasizing each word. "…That yes I am."

The non-confirming confirmation was all Gus needed. He leaned back on the couch, crossing his legs proudly.

"I told you you didn't want to be a cop."

"Yeah," Shawn sighed. "I know."

"And I was right! You so don't want to be a cop!"

"Gus!" Shawn snapped, his ears turning red. "Don't rub it in!"

Gus laughed, deciding he could save the rest for later.

"So, about the case…" he leaned forward eagerly, changing the subject. "What do we know so far?"

"'We'?" Shawn scoffed, throwing the paper back at him. "I thought you were too busy dealing drugs to work nights and weekends."

"Hey," Gus grinned, catching the paper in one hand and tossing it aside in a single motion. "I'm never too busy to watch you suffer."

* * *

_One mile left..._

_One mile left..._

_One mile left…_

_I think…_

_Oh, God, which lap am I on…?_

_I lost track of my laps…_

Shawn's thoughts pulsed through his mind, keeping perfect time with the rhythm of his sneakers striking the track as he ran yet another endless three miles.

He tried to think about something else…anything else…

_The case…_

_The case…_

_The no-where, know-nothing case…_

This was his third day at the Academy, and he still hadn't uncovered anything.

He still wasn't even sure what he was looking for.

His eyes narrowed in concentration as his feet kept running…still running…

_Two victims…_

_Casual acquaintances only…didn't hang out outside of the Academy…_

_…Why are they both dead…?_

He had talked with some of the cadets over the last few days, but hadn't found a nonchalant way to broach the subject of the deaths.

_I have to figure something out…_

_I have to get something…_

_Soon…_

He had been over every inch of the obstacle course, but hadn't found anything there, either.

He had even looked for a connection between the two victims, but as far as he could tell, there wasn't one outside of the Academy.

_There has to be something…_

_Some reason they're both dead…_

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't hear the running steps next to him, falling into perfect pace with his own.

"Are you, like, going for Zen and the Art of Running or something?" A voice suddenly cut through his trance.

He blinked and looked over at the cadet running next to him.

She was a pretty girl in her mid-twenties who Shawn had noticed in several of his classes. Her short blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she didn't seem to be the least bit out of breath from the exercise.

"What do you mean?" Shawn asked, grinning instinctively.

"You haven't blinked in about four minutes," she returned with a tiny smile. "I know. I've been watching you."

"Blinking is for wimps," he snorted in a feeble attempt to sound tough and cop-like.

"Is it?" She laughed.

"Sure," Shawn nodded authoritatively, turning his head just enough to look in her eyes. "I only blink about five times a day…and I'm trying to get it down to two."

"Good luck with that."

"Thank you."

"I didn't realize psychics frowned on blinking," she added casually, tossing her ponytail behind her head before pulling ahead of him again. "I just thought it was all fortune cookies and crystal balls."

Shawn stopped short, watching her jog further and further away.

A grin slowly crept across his face as he picked up the pace again, but she was too far ahead for him to catch up now.

_The police Academy just got a whole lot more interesting…_


	5. Chapter 5

She was already there when Shawn got to Investigative Procedures, sitting in the front row. He slid into the seat next to her and looked down at the open notebook on her desk, hoping to find a name.

"It's Jessie," she said with a smile, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "But shouldn't you already know that?"

"That was the last thing on earth I had left to learn," Shawn answered breezily. "Now I know everything."

"Do you?"

She leaned back in her chair, turning her pale hazel eyes on him.

"Then impress me, Mr. Psychic Man."

Shawn grinned, looking her over carefully.

"Well…you're a cop. And you like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain…"

"Oh, come on." She laughed, shaking her head. "The police department's master psychic can do better than that."

Shawn never got the chance to do better than that, however, as class began at that moment.

The lights suddenly went off, and a series of crime scene photos were projected onto the screen at the front of the room.

"We were looking at these yesterday," Detective Johnson began as the room fell into silence. "Who can tell me, what is the first thing any officer arriving at this scene should do?"

Several hands shot up, but Shawn had never really mastered the art of not calling out in class, much to the chagrin of every teacher he'd ever had.

"Look for the nearest jealous clown," he spoke up, almost without thinking.

There were scattered chuckles around the room, but Detective Johnson didn't look amused.

"What makes you say that, Spencer?" He asked.

Shawn shrugged.

"Well, the victim was a clown. And he was murdered by someone he knew."

The laughter immediately stopped.

Even in the dark, Shawn could feel all eighteen pairs of eyes focusing intently on him.

"What makes you think the victim was a clown?" Detective Johnson demanded, his brow furrowing.

"He's psychic," Jessie interjected, gently nudging Shawn's foot under the desk.

"Well, there's that." Shawn admitted. "But there's also the patch white make-up behind the victim's ear and the tan line around his nose where his fake nose would go. And all the mugs hanging on the wall are facing the same direction except for two, which probably means the murderer put them back to throw us off the track. Which means they probably knew the victim. Not even clowns offer murderers they don't know a drink."

"Anything else?" Detective Johnson asked quietly, clearly somewhat impressed.

Shawn squinted at the screen, then shrugged.

"No. Just that the murder weapon was probably the vase that's missing from the corner table. You can see the imprint where it used to be in the dust."

The room was completely silent.

Shawn cleared his throat awkwardly, the staring finally starting to get to him just a little.

"But you probably already figured that out…" he added quietly.

* * *

"Okay, Mr. Psychic Man." Jessie smiled, catching up with Shawn as they left class and started to make their way across the Academy lawn. "I'm impressed."

"Really?" Shawn asked, raising his eyebrows. "So I was right about the pina colada thing?"

"Not with _that_. With the crime scene photos."

"Oh."

"…And I'm more of a beer person, actually. For future reference."

"Good to know," Shawn grinned.

"But I thought you knew everything."

"Now I do."

Their eyes met, but Shawn was suddenly distracted when he saw Juliet's car turn the corner and come to a stop in front of the Academy.

He recognized it immediately, even from a hundred yards away.

"What's wrong?" Jessie asked, trying to follow Shawn's suddenly distant eyes.

"Nothing…" Shawn murmured, already starting to walk away. "I just remembered I have to go…"

He jogged to the curb and jumped into the car, which pulled away almost before he could shut the door behind him.

"What's going on?" He asked, knowing it had to be something big for Juliet to come to the Academy to find him.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I just know the Chief got the ME's report back and has been trying to call you on your cell phone for an hour."

"I turned it off."

"Well, she wants you back at the station. Now."

"It couldn't wait until--"

"I guess not."

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Juliet's eyes were focused on the road ahead as she turned a corner.

"Was that a suspect?" She asked finally, perhaps just a little too casually.

"Was who a suspect?" Shawn mumbled, not really listening as he tried to figure out what could be going on back at the station.

"That…person you were talking to," Juliet continued, choosing each word deliberately. "Is she a suspect?"

Shawn cocked an interested eyebrow as he glanced over at the driver's seat, suddenly listening intently. He tried to keep a straight face as he formed his response, but he couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from creeping up just a bit.

"No. Not yet. Why?"

"So, she hasn't tried to kill you, then?" Juliet asked with a disarmingly affable smile.

Shawn laughed despite himself.

"Why would she try to kill me?"

"I don't know," Juliet shrugged, finally tearing her eyes away from the road long enough to look at him. "Women are always trying to kill you."

"They are not!" Shawn protested, truly offended by the implication.

But Juliet wasn't about to let this drop.

"What about that FBI psychic?" She pressed.

"Okay…" He conceded begrudgingly. "…So that's _one_ woman--"

"And that bridesmaid-slash-ring thief…"

"She didn't actually try to _kill_ me…" Shawn pointed out, growing slightly defensive at the rapidly-growing list of potential murderers.

"But she _was_ a killer." Juliet countered.

"Well, yeah…" Shawn sulked. "…But she had magic hands…"

"Not to mention the psycho at the Spanish-Language Soap Opera…"

"That one wasn't my fault!" Shawn shouted. "She was insane! She tried to kill _everyone!_"

"I'm just saying!" Juliet snapped, coming to a stop in front of the SBPD. "You don't have good luck with female suspects."

Shawn got out of the car in a huff, slamming the door and marching inside. Juliet was right behind him.

"Well, at least _I_ didn't have some psycho girl come at me with an axe!" He muttered, holding the precinct door open and letting Juliet enter first.

"She thought I killed her best friend!" She shot back. "_And _she was a psycho!"

"I'm just saying! I'm not the only person women want to murder!"


	6. Chapter 6

"_Who_ wants to kill you, Spencer?" Lassiter asked, glancing up demurely from his chair and Shawn and Juliet stepped into the Chief's office.

"No one." Shawn mumbled.

"Women." Juliet clarified for her partner, shutting the office door them.

Lassiter raised a single eyebrow at the psychic, who was still sulking.

"_Another_ one?" He snorted. "Who'd you piss off this time?"

"No one!"

"Sure."

"Enough!" Vick snapped.

She had just entered the office behind Shawn and Juliet and was brusquely making her way across the room to her desk, clearly too preoccupied with more important matters to put up with the petty squabbling.

"Sorry, Chief." Lassiter grunted. "Spencer just pissed off some woman. _Again_."

"I did not!"

"Mr. Spencer," Vick groaned, collapsing into her chair. "I can't devote any more police resources to stopping women from murdering you."

"No one is trying to murder me!"

"_Yet._" Juliet coughed discretely.

Shawn glared at her, but Vick had already moved on.

"Enough." She said again, picking up a file off her desk and handing it to Shawn. "Mr. Spencer, the coroner's report on the two victims just came back. I thought you'd want to see it right away."

Shawn was already flipping through it, his eyes scanning the pages at lightning speed. Juliet read it over his shoulder.

"Methylphenidate?" She murmured, looking up at the Chief, perplexed. "They were both on Ritalin?"

"Most likely," Vick confirmed with a slight nod. "Not by prescription, obviously. The amounts in their systems were way too high to be therapeutic. They were using it as cheap Speed. Probably bought it off some teenager with ADD."

"Is that what killed them?"

"According to the ME, it is. The methylphenidate raised their heart rate and blood pressure to a dangerous level which, when combined with the heat and physical exertion of the obstacle course, led to cardiac arrest."

She turned to Shawn, who was still reading the report intently.

"Which means, you're off the hook, Mr. Spencer. This isn't a murder investigation anymore."

"It's not?" He blinked, tossing the report back on the desk.

"They were accidents. They O.D.'d."

"_Both _of them?"

He raised a challenging eyebrow at the Chief, who slowly sat back in her seat.

"Two recruits with no prior drug history both suddenly O.D. in a month?" He continued, openly skeptical about this new theory. "You don't find that just a little suspicious?"

"Suspicious, yes." Vick nodded. "But it's not murder, Mr. Spencer."

"Maybe not, Chief. But even if it is just a simple O.D., _someone_ inside the Academy was giving these guys Ritalin. They both passed their mandatory drug test when they got in three months ago, which means they weren't using then, and they have absolutely no outside connections. The drugs had to be coming from someone at the Academy!"

"That makes it a narcotics case, Mr. Spencer. Not a homicide investigation."

"But I'm already there!" Shawn argued, surprising even himself with the passion of his response.

"What?" Vick blinked.

Shawn sighed, leaning forward in his seat.

"I'm already there, Chief. Give me some time. Let me get a psychic reading on what's going on. If you pass it off to narcotics, they'll go in, interrogate the hell out of everyone, and never learn a damn thing. We'll never know what really happened."

"I hate to say it," Lassiter spoke up. "But he's right, Chief. He's already established a cover."

Now it was Vick's turn to sigh. She looked from Shawn to Lassiter, both of whom met her gaze unflinchingly.

"You have one week, Mr. Spencer." She said finally. "If you don't uncover anything, I'm handing it off to narcotics."

* * *

"I'm still here, Dad."

Henry looked up from the table at his son, who was the last remaining person in the classroom.

"Yeah. I can see you, Shawn." He returned flatly.

"It's been a week," Shawn continued, undeterred by his father's lack of enthusiasm at his announcement. "I've been here for a week."

Henry sighed, hitting the light switch as he made his way to the door.

"I know what day it is, too, Kid. What the hell's your point?"

"Nothing." Shawn grinned palely, his shiny black shoes clicking on the tiled floor as he walked past his father into the hallway. "There's no point. Just that I'm still here."

Henry shook his head, very nearly smiling to himself as he watched his son disappear down the hallway. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, almost as if he was trying to commit the sight the memory.

"At least he tucked in his damn uniform." He muttered to himself before closing the classroom door and heading down the hall in the opposite direction.


	7. Chapter 7

"Well, you survived your first week, Mr. Psychic Man." Jessie smiled, taking a sip of the beer Shawn put down in front of her.

Her voice was almost drowned out by the noise of the restaurant around them. Shawn had to lean forward to really hear her, but he didn't mind.

"Yeah," he sighed, absently spinning the bottle cap from his own beer on the table. "But next week, I have to start with the obstacle course. I hear it's a killer."

"It's not so bad," Jessie shrugged. "I've done it a few times. You'll be fine."

"No, really." Shawn insisted casually, watching her carefully out of the corner of his eye as he spoke the next few words. "Hasn't it killed, like, two people this month?"

Jessie looked slightly surprised at the mention of the deaths, but she didn't hesitate before answering.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about, Shawn. Heart attacks can happen anywhere."

"Yeah…" Shawn agreed. "But you have to admit, it's kind of weird. Two heart attacks in a month?"

"I don't know," she murmured, seemingly disinterested in the whole conversation. "Not if they had bad hearts. Darren sure wasn't healthy. I know that much."

"Really?" Shawn took a slow sip of his beer before pressing on. "What makes you say that? The paper said they both passed their physicals."

Jessie looked at him curiously, her keen eyes trying to penetrate his skull and read his mind.

"Why are we talking about this?" She asked with just an edge of suspicion.

"I don't know," Shawn shrugged. "You brought it up. Did you want to talk about something else?"

"I don't care. I had some classes with Darren. He always looked stressed out and tired, and he even fell asleep a few times. I think he worked two jobs or something. That's probably what killed him, not the obstacle course."

"Oh."

"So, I don't think you have to worry about, Mr. Psychic Man."

She smiled and leaned forward, her hand somehow finding its way to Shawn's arm.

"I think you'll survive," she whispered, slowly blinking her pale hazel eyes.

* * *

"Did you know your shoe's untied?"

Shawn glanced down at his sneakers, which had, indeed, somehow come untied over the last few laps around the track.

"Yeah," he lied breezily, not slowing his pace as he looked back up at Jessie. "I told you. I know everything."

"Then why don't you tie them?"

"I'm going for the rebel look…" he grinned roguishly. "…Is it working?"

She laughed and shook her head.

"No. You look more like an idiot who doesn't know how to tie his shoes."

"Okay…" he conceded begrudgingly. "But to get the full rebel effect, you have to imagine I'm wearing a leather jacket…"

"Then you'd look like an idiot in a leather jacket who doesn't know how to tie his shoes."

He sighed, looking somewhat defeated.

"So, basically, you're saying I should tie my shoes?" He concluded disappointedly.

"Yeah…." she nodded with a small smile, her eyebrows arching slightly. "…But I do like the leather jacket idea."

She pulled ahead of him again as they rounded the edge of the track and began the long jog back to the other end.

This time, she wasn't too far ahead. Shawn could have easily caught up with her again, but at that moment his left foot stepped on his still untied right shoelace.

_Oh, crap…_he groaned as his right foot buckled underneath him, sending him pitching forward in what felt like slow-motion.

_I hope no one's watching…_

He knew couldn't stop it…

Not now…

He couldn't get his balance back…

All he could do was pray no one was watching.

_Oh, God…what if my dad is watching…?_

It was the last thought that flashed through his mind before the track suddenly came rushing up at his face.

* * *

"You really tripped over your own shoelace?" The nurse asked, putting a band-aid on Shawn's bleeding forehead.

He could hear the laughter in her voice, though her face remained professional and impassive.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

She said it flatly, but he knew she was laughing on the inside.

"Well, I was being shot at…" he muttered defensively. "You know…by bad guys…lots of them…with guns…big ones…"

"Right."

"I was!"

"Don't worry, Mr. Spencer." She smiled gently as she tossed the band-aid wrapper in the trash can. "Most recruits end up down here at some point, usually for dehydration or fatigue or some accident on the obstacle course. I've seen just about everything…"

She paused thoughtfully, searching the air as if for an answer to a question she hadn't asked.

"This is my first shoelace-related injury, though." She murmured. "Ever. And I worked at a high school before this."

"Great," Shawn sighed. "Glad I could be your first."

She laughed and snapped off her sterile gloves.

"Well, you don't have a concussion or anything. Just a little scrape. I think you'll survive."

"Yeah…" he groaned, having absolutely no desire to ever leave that room again. "…Everything except the humiliation."

* * *

"What'd you do to your head?" Henry asked as Shawn tried to slip out of class before his father saw him or the band-aid.

"Nothing." He lied, pausing in the doorway but not turning around.

There was no way in hell he was going to tell his father he tripped over his own shoelaces.

Of course, Henry Spencer wasn't going to accept "Nothing" as an answer, either.

"Shawn." He growled threateningly.

"Fine," Shawn sighed, spinning around and glaring at his father. "I got shot, okay?"

"In the head?" Henry raised a doubtful eyebrow.

"Yeah. I got shot in the head."

"And they patched up a bullet wound with a Bugs Bunny band-aid?"

"It doesn't have Bugs Bunny on it!"

"How the hell did you manage to get shot in the head, anyway?"

"I don't know. Just lucky, I guess."

"Who shot you?"

"I don't know!" Shawn snapped, rapidly losing patience with this interrogation. "Some guy with a gun!"

"Really? Some guy with a gun shot you in the head?"

"Yes!"

Henry grinned, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Then, you _didn't_ trip over your own shoelace and take a face plant on the track?" He demanded, his eyes laughing as his son's ears turned red.


	8. Chapter 8

"What'd you do to your head?" Gus asked the moment Shawn walked into the Psych office.

"Nothing," Shawn mumbled, finally just ripping the stupid band-aid off before another person could hassle him about it.

"Yeah, you did." Gus argued, pointing at the sizeable scrape on Shawn's forehead. "You're all cut up. What'd you do?"

"I got shot."

"In the _head?_"

"Yes, Gus!" Shawn snapped impatiently. "I got shot in the head! Ok? Why does everyone find that so hard to believe?"

"It doesn't even look like a bullet wound, Shawn. It looks like a scrape, like you fell or something."

"I didn't fall!" Shawn shouted. "I got shot!"

"Okay, okay." Gus raised his hands conciliatorily. "You got shot…in the head."

He said the words, but Shawn could tell he didn't really believe them.

"Gus, what do you know about Ritalin?" He asked, quickly changing the subject before Gus could ask anymore questions about his injury.

Gus cocked an eyebrow at his best friend.

"Oh, I think you're a bit beyond that at this point." He said seriously. "What you need is electroshock therapy."

"Funny," Shawn muttered, glaring as he turned a chair around backwards and sat down across the desk from Gus. "I'm serious. What do you know about it?"

Gus leaned back thoughtfully, trying to figure out where Shawn was going with this.

"I don't know. It's a stimulant, but it has the opposite effect on kids. It increases attention span and helps with concentration, so they use it to treat ADD. It's still pretty controversial, though, because of the side effects. Why?"

"Because both victims were pumped full of it when they died."

"Oh," Gus nodded knowledgably. "They were probably using it as cheap Speed. It's easy enough to get, and there's a huge black market for it. Teenagers with ADD sell it off instead of taking it, or they steal it from their little brothers and sisters."

"But could you use it to murder someone by giving them a heart attack?" Shawn asked.

Gus shrugged.

"Theoretically, I guess, but it'd be a pretty inefficient way to kill someone. It does increase your heart rate and it has been linked to several heart attacks in kids, but it'd take a lot of it to kill a healthy adult. Besides, there wouldn't be any guarantee it would actually work the first time."

Shawn sighed, running his hands through his hair as all his theories started to go up in smoke.

"I don't get it," he muttered to himself, standing up and starting to pace the room, his brain pounding furiously. "They weren't junkies. Their systems were clean three months ago. Why would they suddenly start taking drugs?"

Gus shrugged again, his eyes following Shawn's nearly-frantic jaunt around the room.

"People don't always take it to get high," he said after thinking about it for a few minutes. "Sometimes, they just take it to stay awake."

Shawn paused, slowly turning back to his friend.

"What?"

"It's like a really powerful cup of coffee," Gus explained. "It keeps you awake and focused. It also gets you high, but people have gotten addicted to it just for the coffee effect before. The problem is, once your body is used to it, you have to take more of it to get the same results."

Shawn nodded slowly, a grin breaking out across his face as the pieces finally began to fall into place in his mind.

"Gus, you're genius!"

Gus grinned back and clicked his heels up on the desk, clasping his hands at the nape of his neck in satisfaction.

"Well, duh."

* * *

"Spencer! What the hell did you do to your head?"

Shawn groaned as he stepped out of the classroom and nearly collided with Lassiter, who was on his way in.

"Nothing." He growled.

"Did that woman finally try to kill you?"

"No!"

"Then what—"

"Nothing! And what are you doing here, anyway, Lassie?" Shawn demanded. "Shouldn't you be at the station interrogating some innocent person or something?"

Lassiter shrugged, still staring at Shawn's forehead suspiciously.

"I'm supposed to give a lecture about the proper technique for taking finger prints at a crime scene," he explained. "Detective Johnson always asks me to do it for him. He's an old mentor of mine."

As if on cue, Detective Johnson stepped out of the classroom into the hallway.

"Oh, Lassiter. You're here." He mumbled, checking his watch. "You're early."

"Yes, Sir." Lassiter nodded.

"Have you met Spencer?" Johnson continued, gesturing at the psychic with his thumb.

"Unfortunately, yes, Sir." Lassiter muttered. "He does some consulting work for the Department."

"Well, make sure the Department doesn't lose him," Johnson said firmly. "He's the best recruit I've ever seen."

Lassiter's jaw nearly came unhinged as it hit the floor.

"_Spencer?_" He gawked, his eyes bulging out of his head. "_Spencer _is the best recruit you've ever seen?"

Shawn was almost doubled over in laughter now.

If there was ever a more perfect moment in life, he couldn't think of it.

"You heard him, Lassie." He beamed, not even trying to hide his gloating. "_Your_ mentor thinks _I'm_ the best recruit he's ever seen."

"Are you sure you're talking about _Spencer?_" Lassiter asked, refusing to believe it was possible. "_Shawn _Spencer? The pain-in-my-ass psychic?"

"Yes!" Johnson insisted. "Shawn Spencer! Good God, Lassiter. How could you not see it? He has the sharpest mind I've ever seen."

"You hear that, Lassie?" Shawn grinned, elbowing the still stunned detective. "The sharpest mind."

"And he shattered your record score on the shooting range, too." Johnson added, needlessly rubbing salt in the paper cut that was Lassiter's soul.

"He beat my record?"

For a minute, Lassiter looked like he was going to be sick.

"Aww, don't worry, Lassie." Shawn consoled him with a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Just by twenty points."

"Shut up, Spencer."

Detective Johnson checked his watch again and continued down the hall.

"Your lecture is in a half-hour, Lassiter," he called over his shoulder.

Lassiter didn't respond.

Once Detective Johnson was out of sight, Shawn couldn't help himself.

He had to torment Lassiter with this new revelation.

"You know, my dad didn't get to hear that…" he sighed wistfully, draping his arm around the fuming detective's shoulder. "…if I go get him and bring him back here, will you tell him that Detective Johnson thinks I'm the best recruit he's ever seen? He won't believe me if I tell him."

"Shut up, Spencer!"

Lassiter shoved his arm off and stormed off down the hall. Shawn laughed and turned to go back into the classroom, but as he reached for the heavy, wooden door, it suddenly flew open. The corner struck him right in the nose, and before he could even blink he was lying flat on his back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling in a daze.


	9. Chapter 9

_This chapter is different, but I've always wanted to write one where you are in Shawn's mind when he figures everything out. I hope you like the way this turned out. Like I said, it's different, but I've been planning it for a bit now. Hopefully, I earned this...if not, sorry...:-)_

"You walked into a door?"

The nurse pressed an icepack wrapped in a clean cloth against Shawn's still bleeding nose, clearly trying to suppress a laugh though her voice never broke the professional monotone.

"It walked into _me._" Shawn sulked, wincing as the cold mingled with the pain.

"Maybe it was in cahoots with your shoelaces," she suggested with the faintest traces of a smile, sitting back down at her desk as Shawn sank onto the small cot in the corner of the tiny office and rested his head against the wall behind him.

"Don't lean your head back," she added. "Lean forward."

Shawn sighed and tipped his head slightly forward, letting the blood drip onto the cloth.

"I know I said most recruits end up down here at some point, Mr. Spencer," she continued, scribbling away on a notepad without even looking up at him anymore. "But I didn't mean they all end up down here _every day_."

Shawn grunted, but didn't say anything.

His eyes were running over the walls, memorizing every detail of each certificate, diploma and picture.

Finally, he came to the small, red pennant with the word TIGERS etched across it in gold lettering that hung in the corner of the office.

_That must be from the high school she worked at…_he realized.

_She said she worked at a high school…_

_It looks fairly new, too..._

_She must have worked there recently…_

He tried to tear his eyes away from the pennant and continue his thorough memorization of the office, but for some reason his gaze kept being drawn back to it

_High school…_

_She worked at a high school…_

_So what…?_

He pressed the cloth more firmly against his nose, his brain firing off connections almost faster than he could process them.

She was still at her desk, writing notes on her pad furiously, apparently unaware Shawn was watching her every movement now.

_…She said sooner or later, everyone ends up down here…_

_…Did the victims ever end up down here…?_

_…Did she know them…?_

_And she was a nurse at a high school…_

_She must have dealt with medication…_

_She must have dealt with ADD kids…which means she must have dealt with Ritalin…_

_But that doesn't mean…_

He opened his mouth, about to follow his hunch and have a huge psychic revelation right there, but he stopped himself when something from his Investigative Procedures class came back to him.

_…When you're interrogating a suspect, the most important thing is to keep them talking… _

_…Sooner or later, they'll slip up…_

_..Sooner or later, you'll catch them in a lie…but you have to keep them talking…_

He closed his mouth again, the words echoing in his mind.

_…Keep them talking…_

_…Keep them talking…_

_…I've seen my dad do this a thousand times…_

_…Don't rush it, don't tip your hand…_

_…As long I'm pretending to be a cop, I might as well do this like a cop…_

"Is that from the high school you worked at?" He asked casually, gesturing to the pennant with his unoccupied hand.

She looked up from her work.

"Good memory, Mr. Spencer," she nodded. "Yeah. It is."

"Man," he laughed. "I couldn't work at a high school. I hate teenagers."

She shrugged, gently placing her pen down on the desk and turning her chair so she facing him.

"It wasn't so bad…but I want to go back to medical school to get my M.D., and I can't afford to do that on a school nurse's salary."

Shawn slowly pulled the bloody cloth away from his face and dropped it onto the cot next to him.

She was talking.

"Does the Academy pay that much better?" He asked, leaning forward with interest.

He shuddered when it struck him that this was it.

This was his first suspect interrogation.

_Oh, God…_

_I feel like a cop…_

_But I'm not a cop…_

_I don't want to be a cop…_

_I hate blue!_

_What the hell am I doing…?_

"Not much," she smiled. "But the hours are better. I'll have more time to study."

"…But you have to deal with heart attack victims." Shawn added, carefully gauging her reaction.

She blinked, and for a long moment didn't say anything.

"I have to deal with klutzes, too, Mr. Spencer." She snapped finally, turning back to her desk.

_I definitely struck a nerve…_

_Keep her talking…_

_…Dear God, I'm starting to sound like my father…_

_…I'll be bald in a year…_

"Sorry," he apologized, standing up as if he to leave. "I didn't mean to offend you. Did you know them or something?"

In that instant, her manner had completely changed. She was no longer the friendly professional. She looked up at him, her jaw clenching.

"Your nose stopped bleeding, Mr. Spencer." She intoned gravely. "You can leave now."

"Right." He nodded, heading out the door.

Just before he left, however, he paused and turned back around.

"Just one question." He said quietly, meeting her gaze firmly.

"What?"

"When Darren died, did it even occur to you to stop selling Ritalin before someone else got hurt?"


	10. Chapter 10

For a brief, tense moment, Shawn wondered vaguely if he was actually about to get shot in the head.

Her deep blue eyes locked with his, brimming with a smoldering rage mingled with something resembling regret.

"What?" She whispered, her voice trembling.

At first, Shawn couldn't tell if she was on the verge of tears or a homicidal rampage. Her fingers had curled into loose fists, but something in her suddenly stony exterior seemed ready to crack.

"You heard me," he replied, closing the door again as he came back in and sat down on the cot.

"Yeah. I did."

"So…did it occur to you?"

He asked the question more gently this time. She blinked slowly, as if carefully considering her options before finally responding.

"Yeah." She said quietly. "It did."

"But you didn't stop," Shawn pressed on. "Not even after Darren died. The money was too good…the money for med school."

"Yeah."

"And it was so easy…" he murmured his eyes half-closed as his mind feverishly chugged away. "You already had connections at the high school…you knew what kids sold their Ritalin instead of taking it…and Darren Matthews and Simon Boyle were easy marks…working two jobs, going to the Academy…they were always tired…stressed…they needed _something_ to get through the day…to stay awake…"

"They weren't marks." She argued softly. "They came to me. They asked me for something to help them stay awake and study."

"And you saw your chance to make some easy money."

"Yeah."

"Were they the only ones?"

Her eyes suddenly hardened again and her fists released.

"You can't prove any of this, you know," she intoned, the dark edge settling over her voice again.

"Not yet…" he admitted evenly. "But it's enough to get a search warrant."

"They won't find anything."

"They might not…but I think they will."

The silence hung thickly in the air as the two regarded each other coolly; both knowing what was coming next.

She slowly sat down in her office chair again, staring blankly at the floor by his feet.

"They weren't supposed to die, Mr. Spencer." She said quietly. "It was just supposed to be some easy money…"

Shawn nodded and stood up.

"We haven't gotten to this chapter in Investigative Procedures yet, but I'm pretty sure that's called a confession."

* * *

"Wow…" Jessie whistled when Shawn finished telling her the story.

The _whole_ story.

"Yeah…" Shawn agreed, popping the top of his beer and taking a slow, contemplative sip.

"I don't feel so bad about bashing you in the face with the door now," she grinned. "It helped solve a case."

"Hey," Shawn shrugged; returning the smile as he gently rubbed his still tender nose. "It was all part of my master plan."

"'Master plan'?"

"Sure. I had to have _some _excuse to get sent to the infirmary. How else was I going to infiltrate the drug ring?"

"Right," Jessie nodded skeptically. "Was tripping over your own shoelaces part of the 'master plan', too?"

"Of course!" Shawn snorted, then gasped in fake horror as he pretended to suddenly realize what she must be thinking. "What? Did you think I was just a klutz?"

"Yeah." Jessie laughed. "Yeah, I did."

She thoughtfully spun her bottle on the table, watching the liquid slosh back and forth, something clearly weighing on her mind.

"Was I your suspect?" She asked finally, her eyes searching Shawn's face for even the slightest traces of hesitation.

She didn't find any.

"No," he said firmly without so much as a beat between the question and the answer.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure….though there were bets going about how long it would take before you came at me with a machete."

"A machete?" She laughed. "Why would I come at you with a machete?"

"Hey," he shrugged. "It happens."

"Not to normal people, Shawn."

"Really?"

He seemed surprised by the revelation.

For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, both sipping their beers and glancing at each other out of the corner of their eyes.

"Does this mean you won't be back at the Academy on Monday, Mr. Psychic Man?" She asked quietly. "Now that you solved your case?"

He leaned forward, his hand brushing past hers.

"I'll be back on Monday."


	11. Chapter 11

**Six Months (Minus Two Weeks) Later…**

When Shawn opened his apartment door, the last person he expected to find standing there was his father.

"Dad!" He blinked, not even attempting to hide his shock.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

"Well, can I come in?" Henry scowled finally, his hands jammed in his pockets.

Shawn silently held the door open and stepped aside, too stunned to immediately come up with a witty retort. Henry entered, looking around the apartment with a critical eye.

"You never learned how to use a damn vacuum." He muttered, more to himself than out loud.

"What are you doing here?" Shawn rolled his eyes, mentally preparing for a lengthy lecture about his housekeeping habits. "A random barracks check?"

Henry just shrugged.

"I was in the neighborhood…"

"Dad. You've _never _been in the neighborhood. Ever. I didn't know you even knew where I lived."

"Well, maybe I'd come by more if you didn't live like a slob, Shawn." Henry shot back, kicking at a pile of dirty laundry that had been discarded in the middle of the floor. "I mean, God, Kid. Don't you even own a laundry basket?"

"You didn't come over to investigate my laundry!" Shawn snapped, rapidly losing patience with this conversation. "So, just tell me! What the hell are you doing here?"

Henry hesitated, for some reason Shawn could only fathom refusing to meet his eyes.

Clearly, something was on his mind.

"_What_?" Shawn demanded. "Don't tell me you and Mom are getting _another_ divorce!"

Henry glared at him, apparently not amused.

"Shut up, Kid."

"Then _what?_"

Henry sighed, tossing Shawn's jacket aside as he sat on the couch.

"What the hell are you doing, Shawn?" He asked quietly.

Shawn stared at him in dumbfounded bewilderment.

"_What?_"

"You heard me. What the hell are you doing?"

"It's _my_ apartment!" Shawn shouted in exasperation. "I'm _existing_! What? Do I need a permit for that now?"

"That's not what I mean!" Henry snapped. "And you know it! What the hell are you still doing at the Academy? You cracked your case six months ago."

"Oh."

Shawn blinked slowly, finally starting to get a vague idea of what the conversation was really about.

"Well? Didn't you?" Henry pressed on.

"Yeah. I did."

"Then why are you still there, Shawn? What the hell are you trying to prove?"

Shawn shrugged, tumbling into the overstuffed chair in the corner of the room.

"I'm not trying to prove anything. I started something and I wanted to finish it. That's all. I don't know. This cranky old guy I knew once told me I should finish what I start….actually, he didn't tell me as much as yell at me…"

Henry's piercing eyes locked with Shawn's, searching his son's soul for any trace of trickery or deceit.

"What are you going to do after tomorrow? When you're done?" Henry continued his interrogation, his eyes still burrowing into the depths of Shawn's inner-being.

"I don't know."

"Well, get a damn idea. You'll have a badge, Kid. A real one. People are going to be counting on you. Peoples lives are at stake."

Shawn sighed and leaned forward.

Suddenly, this had turned into the conversation he had been avoiding for six months.

"I'm not going to join the force, Dad." He said quietly. "They offered me a job, and I turned it down. I'm not a cop. I'm a psychic detective. That's what I want to be."

Henry blinked, his face settling into an impenetrable mask.

"Then why are you still there?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer, Shawn!"

Shawn stood up furiously, his ears burning.

"What the hell's the matter with you?!" He shouted. "When I quit, you ride my ass! When I finish something, you ride my ass! What the hell do you want from me? I'm not a psychic because I _can't_ be a cop. I'm not a psychic because there's nothing else I can do. I just proved I _can_ be a cop. But I don't _want_ to, Dad. I want to be a psychic! Why isn't that good enough for you?"

For once, Henry didn't have an answer.

He stood up and silently marched to the door, apparently too angry to even speak.

When he reached the doorway, however, he slowly turned around again, his eyes meeting Shawn's squarely.

"You'll have to give Lassiter his gun back when you're done at the Academy." He growled.

"So?" Shawn snapped, still fuming himself.

"If you're going to stick with this psychic detective…thing…you'll need a gun."

"I don't need a gun."

"Yes, you do, Shawn."

Henry's voice was suddenly quiet, and for some reason he was staring at the floor again.

"What are you talking about?" Shawn demanded.

"I still have the one I carried on the force…" Henry mumbled. "I don't use it…"

Shawn stared at his father, a slow smile starting to creep across his face.

He tried to hide it, but couldn't.

"Maybe I do need a gun." He said quietly. "Women _are_ always trying to kill me…"


End file.
